


Briar Rose

by Chessy_Potata



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abused Draco Malfoy, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, But there probably be a part two, Childhood Trauma, Cutting, Depressed Draco Malfoy, Depression, Draco Malfoy Has Issues, Draco Malfoy Has Long Hair, Draco Malfoy Has Nightmares, Draco Malfoy Has PTSD, Draco Malfoy Has a Crush, Draco Malfoy Has a Crush on Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy Has a Heart, Draco Malfoy Redemption, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Fluff, Draco is SHORT, Draco is Whipped, Draco loves whipped cream, Drarry, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Family Issues, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy, Good Draco Malfoy, Hallucinations, Harry Has Issues, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter Has a Crush on Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, One Shot, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Psychological Trauma, References to Depression, Relationship Issues, Scratching, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Worth Issues, Smoll, Tall Harry, Tall Harry Potter, Trauma, Trust Issues, angsty, coffee addict Draco Malfoy, draco is small, draco is smol, h/c, self hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28243434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chessy_Potata/pseuds/Chessy_Potata
Summary: “Draco, that amount of sugar and caffeine is going to kill you.”“Doesn’t matter Potter, I’m paying. Now would you be a dear and add an extra large mocha cupcake to my order? With a side of extra whipped cream of course. It’s simply adorable how concerned you are, really, but I think I'll survive.”.Draco has been spiralling for months now, and he just wants some sleep. Is caffeine and sugar too much to ask for?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 29
Kudos: 215





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Patronus, Coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19445194) by [RoyalTEA_scribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalTEA_scribbles/pseuds/RoyalTEA_scribbles). 



> Firstly, 2020 has been trash  
> .  
> Secondly, thank you for reading this and I apologise in advance for any plot holes or grammar and spelling mistakes in general. Enjoy! owo

Draco stepped into the toasty warm coffee shop, breathing in the bittersweet scent of coffee strong in the lively atmosphere. It was the middle of winter, and London was freezing. 

Draco had been lying in bed buried under the covers in his fairly new apartment reading a lovely book written by a muggle-born. Although he had been getting less sleep than often, he had an extremely pleasant late morning. 

That was before Draco realised his trusty coffee machine had broken down, giving up on him in the middle of a brew. Thus, he had no choice but to venture out into the gloomy streets of London on a noble daring quest to obtain his caffeine. His classic go-to backup coffee place, Briar Rose was only a brief five-minute walk from his apartment building. 

Although it had been chilly outside, the temperature at a low 2°c, Draco only had his favourite black turtleneck, ripped skinny jeans and winter jacket on. He had been feeling to depressed to dress himself up, and he had simply picked the clothes at the top of his pile of clean laundry. 

The sudden temperature drop from the night before was more apparent than ever, the roofs and streets dusted with a thin blanket of snow, as if someone had dusted powdered sugar all over the city. Thankfully the temperature had rizen, if not slightly, to just above the temperature for snow. The streets of London were wet and slippery, a tell tale sign of melting snow. 

Not two minutes into his walk to Briar Rose and Draco was already regretting his choice of clothes and his life decisions. The bitter cold had a way of wicking away body heat faster than it can be replaced. It’s one of those days when normal clothes aren’t enough, and they feel thinner than what they actually are. 

Breathes rising in small puffs, Draco hugged himself tightly, walking briskly across the pavement, careful not to slip on the icy path less he fell.

By the time Draco had reached his backup coffee place, Briar Rose, the tip of his nose was numb, and his lips had taken on a blueish hue, his teeth chattering like a pneumatic drill. The biting cold had chilled his fingers into clumsy numbness and spread painfully throughout his sneakers, leaving behind a light layer of freshly fallen snow melting on his icy white hair, making it damp and limp like overcooked spaghetti. 

He quickly shook the snow and ice off before entering the shop. Briar Rose was a quaint around-the-corner coffee shop, ran by a sweet muggle-born couple, both a ripe age of 80. It was quite a popular afternoon tea spot among locals, and so when Draco moved into the neighbourhood, he had decided to visit it and give it a shot. He loved it. The place, the ambiance, the coffee. 

Draco was obsessed. He had come here every day for their espresso shots until the day his once-upon-a-time trusty coffee machine arrived in the mail, and he no longer found the need to walk such long distances for his coffee. Until today.

Unlike most Hogwart students, Draco had no holiday plans or friends, most of them being dead or in Azkaban, all because of him. Some of them, like Pans- Parkinson, were outright avoiding him. He couldn’t blame her for her decision. 

‘If I were her, I would avoid myself too,’ he thought. He had been an obnoxious sheltered kid, overconfident and entitled. He let out a weak self-deprecating chuckle. How anyone wanted to be his friend back then, even now, was beyond him.

Draco had decided to move out from Malfoy Manor in the second half of the year. It had reminded him of too many traumatic childhood memories. In addition to that, there was his poor mother. 

The war had worn her down. After all, the once spirited woman had always been terrified of Voldemort. Perhaps it was the daily stress, or perhaps it was the fear, as constant as clockwork, that was gradually breaking the poor woman down piece by piece, crushing her spirit bit by bit.

But how would Draco know? What he did understand, however, was that Father’s life long sentence in Azkaban was the straw that broke the camel’s back. When news of Father’s sentence reached his Mother, she had been in hysterics, kicking and screaming like a madwoman. She had gone on a crazed rampage, throwing random curses and hexes left and right causing chaos all over, demanding her husband be freed. It had taken no less than three squads of full-grown Aurors and four stun spells to subdue one Narcissa Malfoy Black.

From that day onwards his mother had never been the same, losing all sense of reality, often hallucinating things out of this world. She wasn't the dedicated mother she once was, the familiar warm smile long gone. It wasn’t long before Draco had decided to move out. He was too worn out, too tired. He simply couldn't stand the manor anymore. Too much had happened there, and he needed a break. 

It had been six months since he had moved into the apartment in London, yet he still blamed himself. ‘Selfish, ungrateful son’ was one of his favourite ways to describe himself. 

Draco discreetly looked around, carefully observing his surroundings. The double levelled coffee shop had multiple long wooden tables, most of which were already occupied by small groups of college students, seemingly studying for their final exams.

The interior was decorated with simplistic monochromatic decoration, with large potted plants on the floor and small air plants hanging from the wooden ceiling beams. From the ceiling hung a mini chandelier and on the walls were multiple candelabras at equal intervals, each holding a lighted candle that smells faintly of wood.

The air was filled with the rich aroma of roasted coffee beans, chocolate and baked goods galore. There was the occasional tinkle of the bell of someone exiting or entering the shop, the light clink-clank noises as someone set a glass down. There was also the light chitter-chatter of students discussing projects or simply gossiping with friends.

It reminded him painfully of the Great Hall at Hogwarts before the Battle of Hogwarts 

Before Voldemort. 

Living with Voldemort and his Father had taught Draco the importance of heightened senses, the ability to sense and predict incoming danger or threats.

Spotting no familiar faces, he let out a breath of pure unbridled relief. After all, no familiar faces meant no confrontations. 

It had been almost a good year after the great war had ended, yet it felt like yesterday that he had been in the eye of the storm, on The Dar- Voldemort's side. 

The aftermath of the war was a total blur, and he couldn’t recall what transpired. The trial of his parents, then his, had all been a blur, and he had been stripped of his feelings and left with nothing but a hollow shell of himself, feeling infinitely emptier than usual, and even more lonely, if that was even possible. 

He vaguely remembered Potter defending him in his trial, but that can’t be true. He hated Potter, and Potter hated him. It was a simple truth, a common fact. Thus, he concluded that, after a considerable amount of brainstorming, that he had been hallucinating, dreaming, or under the influence of some potion. Whichever made more sense. 

Draco got in line, shedding off his heavy winter coat. As he waited in line for his turn at the cashier, his thoughts drifted away. 

It has been an average day so far. He had finally fallen asleep at 1:47 in the morning earlier than usual, but it wasn’t long before he woke up at 3:04 due to yet another nightmare about the Great War. He had been back at Malfoy Manor. He remembered the rotting corpses of his parents, his friends, his family. They were blaming him. ‘Why didn’t you save us?’ 

He had woken up in a puddle of cold sweat, shivering, his hands and feet feeling numb. His heart pounding too hard, too fast in his rib cage. He had slipped into another panic attack, quickly going out of breath. He had been left a weak shivering mess, drained and feeling emptier than usual, unable to go back to sleep. 

It had been a downward spiral from then on. He didn’t recall what happened, only remembering the intense need to punish himself. 

It was only when the sun finally rose from behind the horizon, filling the sky with a thousand different shades of orange and pink, peach and magenta, amber and rose, that Draco had finally realised what he had done.

“Welcome to Briar Rose, home to the best coffee in London! What can I get you today?” Spoke the overenthusiastic voice of what seemed to be an underpaid employee, pulling Draco’s head out of the clouds. 

Said employee was standing behind a tall cash register, counting some dollar bills, his jet black curly hair peeking out from behind. He lifted his head, revealing his face. 

Draco’s eyes widened in surprise and poorly concealed horror. He let out a squeak. 

“Malfoy? What are you doing here?” Potter whisper-shouted, trying his best to keep a straight face. “ You look like you're at death’s door!” 

Draco closed his eyes, sensing an oncoming migraine. He was not ready for this. 

Draco had been avoiding Potter for the past few months, especially so after the war. The years must have been feeling especially generous towards the saviour of the wizarding world. The once lanky 5’5” first year had bulked up and hit multiple growth spurt, and was now towering over Draco’s 5' 9” at an impressive 6’1”.

Gone was the thin-faced, knobbly knees, and dare he say, nerd. Quidditch had done wonders to the boy who lived and had blessed him with sun-kissed skin and lean muscles Draco had a distinct absence of despite practising the same sport. He quickly decided that god was unfair.

Draco wanted to slap himself. He was here for caffeine and sugar, not to ogle at handsome boys! ‘Don’t screw this up, useless creature and try to be a decent person’, he thought to himself. 

“Doesn’t matter Potter,” he whispered in a barely audible volume. Harry’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Why would he ever believe you?’ Draco plastered a fake smile on his face. 

“I would like a sextuple espresso with extra, extra whipped cream and six macaroons with a side of whipped cream,” he said with a straight face. Harry looked up from behind the cash register and cocked an eyebrow. 

“Draco, that amount of sugar and caffeine is going to kill you.” Draco gave him a sugary sweet smile.

“Doesn’t matter Potter, I’m paying. Now would you be a dear and add an extra-large mocha cupcake to my order? With a side of extra whipped cream of course. It’s simply adorable how concerned you are, really, but I think I'll survive.” Harry sputtered, looking appalled at the mere thought of him being sympathetic towards Draco.

“Who says I’m worried?” Murmured Harry under his breath. 

‘Why would he be? Why would anyone care?’ Draco asked himself. He watched Harry add an extra-large mocha cupcake to his order. 

"I didn't know the great Harry Potter worked for mud bloods," he said, watching Harry write down his order onto a paper cup. “Proud of yourself, Potter?” 

Harry frowned, and Draco cringed inwardly. He’d already blown it. Excellent. Simply fabulous. 'What am I doing,' Draco thought to himself. He clawed at his freshly made wounds through his long black turtleneck, feeling the fresh sting of an open wound once again. Why did he keep screwing things up? 

Harry’s face was beginning to take on a red tint like a ripening tomato, his lips pressed into a thin line. He gave Draco one last poisonous look before plastering on a thin smile, barely concealed rage bubbling below the seemingly smooth calm surface, more than ready to erupt at any given moment. 

“Anything else I can help you with dear customer?” Harry asked sarcastically. “If not, your total will be £14.49.” Draco tapped the credit card onto the terminal.

"Sorry,” he turned away and murmured, swallowing whatever remaining pride he had left and forcing out an apology, trying desperately to make it sound sincere. “That last two statements weren’t needed.”

"Apology accepted," Harry responded coldly, not even sparing him a glance before he went marching off to make Draco’s order.

Draco moved over to the waiting area. He felt the pit inside him grow, his stomach twisting in knots as heat spread up his back. 'Look how badly you just messed up,' he thought to himself. 'You are incapable of being a better person.' 

His breathing was beginning to slowly go out of rhythm. Shit. He was having another anxiety attack. 

'Of course, he hates you, everyone here hates you, and they don't even all know you,' Draco bit his lip and inhaled sharply. 

'You’re still just a disappointment. A failure.' He was spiralling, down, down, down. 

'No one cares about you.' His breathing got more and more erratic. 'What is your problem? For once in your life, why can't you just be nice, it shouldn't be this hard.' 

He felt people’s eyes on him. They were staring at him. He felt suffocated. 'Clearly, something’s wrong with you,' they all said in unison. Some were laughing at him, some giving him looks of complete disgust. 'What gives you the right to change after all you've done!' They were all yelling at him. 

Draco couldn't breathe. He tugged on his collar and unbuttoned the top of his shirt in a desperate attempt to restore the air in his lungs. 

'Your not a kid anymore,' he thought to himself. 'Pull it together.' The tormenting continued. 

Draco could feel himself hyperventilating. He was having yet another full-blown anxiety attack in public. Just when he thought he had one thing of his life under control. 

He felt faint. He just wanted to run away and hide in a corner so that he wouldn’t need to face the world.

‘Coward, traitor.’ He hunched over as the dizziness got worse and worse as the seconds ticked by. 

His knees were already starting to buckle under his non-existent weight. He hadn’t been eating much for the past few months, often skipping meals or forgetting to eat food altogether for days. He remembered that one time he went without food for two weeks. He had almost collapsed in the middle of the school day. A stupid mistake. When was the last time he had eaten? He couldn’t remember.

He swallowed, feeling like he ate a rock. It hurt so much. He just wanted it to stop. Was it too much to ask for? He felt something wet fall down his face. Tears. He was crying. 

“Goddammit,” he cursed himself in a low voice. 'You’re in public for goodness sake,' he thought to himself. 'Pull yourself together’. 

At that point, Draco was so lightheaded that he was moments away from falling over. 

Looking back, he's positive that's why he never noticed Harry coming around to check on him.


	2. Briars and brambles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nay. Thy has’t been flattered beyond words, and thy can nay longeth’r comprehend what thou art declaring. Horror.”  
> .  
> The aftermath of Draco's panic attack.  
> .  
> Draco doesn't want coffee and sugar as much as he wants Harry to leave him alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm for those who wished for it... part two is here! :D This was quite rushed though so .-.

Harry slowly reached his hand out to Draco, causing the boy to flinch backwards harshly and accidentally step on his coat. He slipped backwards and fell on the soft carpeted floor with a muted thud, before curling up into a fetal position.

‘Useless, worthless bloke. Failure, disappointment, trash. You can’t even handle yourself out in public, something even a two-year-old can do. What a joke.’ He whimpered softly, curling up into a tighter ball, begging, pleading the horrible voices to just go away. The toxic thoughts kept seeping through his weak almost non-existent defences into his mind once again, corrupting him even further. 

‘Freak, mistake, disappointment.’ He felt like he was once again being thrown into the deep end, unable to sink, yet unable to die, not just yet. He was just thrashing at the surface, barely able to keep his head up. 

‘It won’t be long before you go under, you filthy useless coward,’ whispered that horrible voice once again. No one was coming to save him. He was all alone. Again. 

‘Why do you even bother, you’re just a waste of space, a worthless freak not worth loving or living. Even death won’t do justice for those who have suffered by your hands.’ The worst part was, deep down, no matter how much he tried to suppress those feelings, to deny those thoughts, Draco believed it. Because it was the truth.

"Draco, is it alright if I touched you?" Harry asked, slowly and deliberately, articulating his words the best he could. Harry had been making coffee, his head in the clouds once again. His fiery temper had already begun to cool down, and he was starting to wonder what was wrong with Draco today. He had seemed out of it, throwing insult after insult at Harry, but each of the verbal bullets he fired at Harry’s way seemed half-hearted and were all lacking the usual passion and jab it had. Harry had been half tempted to call him out for it. 

‘Something was amiss’, Harry quickly decided. It was as if Draco were just a shadow of his former self, a hollow shell. Harry could tell he was wearing a mask but couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. He was so distracted that it was only when he looked up over the counter towards the waiting area did he realise Draco’s current state. 

“Draco, can I touch you?” Harry asked, repeating his question when Draco didn’t respond, speaking at a slower pace as compared to before. Back when Harry was dating Ginny, she often startled awake next to him at ungodly hours such as in the middle of the night or wee hours of the morning due to nightmares. On better nights she woke up in tears. On worse nights, she woke up screaming. 

Anxiety attacks were a regular unwanted guest at Grimmauld Place. Another familiar gate crasher was it’s older brother, Panic attack. During the four months that they had been living in the same apartment building, Harry had acquired much knowledge and experience associated with the two brothers. Although it’s been a few months since he and Ginny had broken up and parted ways, Harry still had more than sufficient knowledge and experience to support someone in the middle of a panic or anxiety if they ever needed it. Harry was no professional therapist but it looked like the older of the two brothers had come crashing in, uninvited.

Malfoy barely managed to nod through the haze spreading like a wildfire in his head. His face was like the fermenting Shiraz wine in his Father’s wine cellar, a blush in a brilliant shade of claret flushed across his face, a stark contrast to his fair porcelain skin, making it look even paler than before. 

He could feel his heartbeat, every pound in his chest, beating against his rib cage. The great pounding, the great pressure; every beat. It was all Draco could feel, every pump of his heart like a vigorous blow from a giant. It had started gently, every pump of his heart slow and steady in his chest, the tempo slow and steady, consistent like a metronome, each heartbeat like a harmless ripple caused by a minuscule pebble. It wasn’t long before said ripple spread out, distorting the images reflected on the smooth glass-like surface of a great lake, creating giant catastrophic waves that tore at his sanity. The horrible sensation kept coming at him, wave after wave after wave, wearing him down further and further in his weakest moments, like quartzite rocks by the seaside, until he was left as nothing.

His heart was starting to ache, his chest throbbing and his lungs burning as he continued gasping for breath, begging for just a mouthful of fresh air, a breath of relief, but unable to grasp it. 

‘Like a Plimpy out of the water’, as his father used to say. His hands were cold and clammy, beads of cold sweat sliding off his face despite the warmth and humidity of the shop. His head felt like a sledgehammer was pounding on it. He felt like it was splitting into two under the immense pressure. Tears slide down his cheeks, staining his turtleneck. He couldn’t think, see or hear clearly. 

‘I’m scared, I’m scared,’ he thought. Was no one coming to save him? He supposed he deserved it. ‘It hurts,’ was the only clear thought in his head. Everything was gradually fading out into a pale white colour, the static in his ear growing louder and louder as bit by bit, his surrounding gradually faded away. 

“I’m going to hug you now.” Gently as he could, so as not to startle him, Harry slowly wrapped his arms around Malfoy as if he were a wounded baby animal, fragile and small. He envelops Draco in warmth, giving birth to a sense of safety to Draco. ‘False security, whispered the voice into Draco’s ear once more.

“It’s alright, Draco. You're safe now, and doing an excellent job of getting through this. I am proud of you.” Draco didn’t respond, only letting out another weak whimper as Harry gently combed his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, slowly disentangling the stubborn knots in his white locks one by one before pulling it into a neat ponytail. He finished it off by using a spare rubber band on his wrist. 

‘Useless dysfunctional bloke, always inconveniencing someone. Not even 15 minutes out of the house and you are already a burden? How pathetic.’ Draco could already hear his Father’s voice. ‘What a disgusting sign of weakness, a true Malfoy never depends on someone else.’ Despite that, Draco let Harry hug him for a few more seconds before Harry backed away. He held Draco’s hands in his. They were smooth but bony as if Draco had never worked a day in his life and were now cold and clammy, a stark contrast of his warm and calloused ones, permanently marked with burn marks and scars from his childhood.

“I need you to follow my breathing, alright Draco? 8 seconds in, hold for 4 and out for 7 seconds.” Harry breathed in for 8 seconds in an exaggerated, almost comical, way, his chest puffing out, before holding it for 4 seconds and slowly releasing the air out of his mouth for 7. Harry suspected that he looked like an inflating and deflating balloon yet he couldn’t care less about how stupid he looked. After all, Draco was his first priority.

Draco followed him, trying his best to imitate his action. After much effort, he finally stopped hyperventilating. Although his breathing was still uneven and choppy, he was no longer in danger of fainting. 

Harry’s furrowed his eyebrows, the edge of his thinly pressed lips pointing downwards, heavy with worry. Although Draco’s breathing was less erratic than before, he wasn’t looking much better than he was before Harry came. His eyes had glazed over, and he had on his face a blank, almost dead expression. He looked dazed as if he was there physically but was not mentally. ‘Is he disassociating? Maybe he's going through depersonalization or derealization.’ Whatever the case was, the concerned crowd of patrons slowly gathering around them and the worried stares of students were starting to become a huge problem. 

“Shoo, shoo, hurry along. ‘arry, what’s goin’ on?” asked a familiar voice, soft and barely audible over the hushed whispers of onlookers, heavy with worry. It belonged to Harry’s boss and one of the two owners of Briar Rose, Mrs Rose. She had pushed her way through the crowd and was now helping disperse it with the help of her trusty walking stick. 

“Hurry along now, away!” she declared, waving her walking stick up in the air like a madwoman, causing the people gathered around them to swiftly disperse. 

Mrs Rose was a quirky spirited elderly lady, short and stout, who always insisted that her white wispy hair were silvery locks. Her shoulder-length ‘luscious locks’ were barely long enough, but she had always somehow managed to twirl it up in a neat bun, topping it off with a classic long wooden knitting needle to hold it in place. She wore half-moon glasses with a connecting chain around her neck for her failing eyesight, much like Dumbledore. If it wasn’t for her quirkiness and her penchant for dangerous candy, especially toxic waste, Harry would have assumed she were a sweet old lady, a classic storytale grandma ome to life.

Her favourite colour was red, and so was almost every single teacup, plate, and bowl in the shop. The dress code set by her was simple, only specifying the use of her favourite colour a must in their outfit. ‘To match with the apron’ she explained. Harry swore that if it wasn’t for her arthritic joints and her failing eyesight, she would be hopping around town offering cookies and coffee to every living soul. Even the trees. 

Somedays, Harry would see her holding small thin glass vials of colourful ‘fruit extract’. Others, he saw her waving her feather duster around in a ‘swish and flick’, although she always insisted when asked by Harry that she found it to be ‘the best way to clean’. 

“Oh dear,” she said, pushing her steel-rimmed glasses up her nose for a closer look and squinting her eyes, causing the wrinkles on her haggard face to deepen, causing her to look older than her actual age. “It seems like one of those accursed brothers have come knocking at his door.” 

Harry would have laughed it wasn’t for the gravity of the current situation in hand. Mrs Rose had picked up his affectionate nickname for those pesky gatecrashers about half a year ago. Harry had been a part-time worker back then, and Ginny had been a regular customer, as consistent and predictable as clockwork. She would always walk with Harry to work and wait for him to finish his morning shift at the corner couch booth, sipping on hot chocolate, reading a muggle book, sometimes the newspapers. 

On that particular Tuesday morning, Ginny had woken up to an especially horrible nightmare screaming, before things quickly escalated into a full-blown panic attack. It had been the fourth night in a row this had been happening. It was only by the time that the sun bloomed on the horizon, golden petals stretching outwards into the rich blue, bathing London’s gothic architecture in warm golden light, did Harry finally manage to calm Ginny down. 

Harry had been more than tempted to call into work, but Ginny had insisted that he should not take a day off just because of some ‘little panic attack’. ‘As if there were such a thing!’ he had said. It had taken one argument, two heated debates, three homemade treacle tarts and four separate promises of a Quidditch date to convince Harry to go to work. By then he was beyond late to catch the hourly public bus, and he and Ginny had to run the whole way to Briar Rose. He almost hadn’t made it in time. 

The entire morning Ginny had been out of it, her eyes glazed over, eyebags prominent, her worsening insomnia as obvious as the midnight sun. It wasn’t long before she had nodded off on the couch to the soft chitter-chatter of the coffee shop, her book sliding out of her hand, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. Her order hadn’t even arrived yet. 

That morning, business had been better than usual, numerous customers of all ages, regulars and new ones, coming in at regular intervals in large groups. It was one of those days that they needed extra help, and Mrs Rose had been one of the many heroic individuals to step up and tackle the job. 

Not 20 minutes had passed when Ginny had startled awake from another nightmare, but this time without Harry by her side. Mrs Rose had been serving customers when she noticed Ginny shivering, her face drained of blood, her lips pale. She had quickly called Harry over, and with both their efforts in reassuring Ginny and encouraging her, paired with a dash of classic humour, they had effectively calmed Ginny down in record time. 

‘I know the brothers are bad Ginny but don’t forget that the ones you have at home are worse,’ were one of the phrases most commonly said by Harry to comfort Ginny. Harry had explained later on to Mrs Rose that the ‘brothers’ were their nicknames for a panic and anxiety attack, justifying that a bit of humour always helped Ginny stay grounded and stopped the situation from going out of hand.

“Hmm. You should probably move im’ away, the crowd an’ stares ain’t doin’ tis’ poor boy any good,'' suggested Mrs Rose. “There’s a sittin’ area at the back, past tat’ potted plant over ther’. I’l get the boy his oder’ ‘arry. Tak’a break and take care of ya’ boyfriend now,” she said, giving him a mischievous wink. “And don’cha forget to include ‘hat pretty girlfriend of yours too.” With a twinkle in her eye, she hobbled away. “Youth these days, so active,” he heard her mutter. 

A blush spread across his face, reaching up to his ears, his cheeks like a blooming rose, slowly uncurling and spreading its petals to reveal a brilliant shade of red. He turned back, focusing his attention back on Draco. 

“Draco, I’m going to move you now alright?” He waited patiently for a few seconds until he heard a barely audible noise of approval from Draco. Harry wrapped his arms around Draco’s chest, lifting him. Draco stood up, revealing the current state of his top. His once crisp and clean black turtleneck was now crumpled and messy, wrinkles and creases all over. Some parts of his top were in a much darker shade than others, stained with salty tears. 

Harry picked up Draco’s coat. He then slowly and carefully steered Draco, patiently navigating him through the store, weaving in and out of crowds of customers, barely avoiding multiple obstacles, to said sitting area hidden in a more secluded area at the back of the coffee shop. Draco was worryingly light and unnaturally out of it, silently following Harry though the cafe, though stumbling, tripping and almost falling over a few times. Harry was almost starting to miss the old Draco Malfoy back at Hogwarts who would throw insult after insult at him mercilessly. 

He led Draco to the biggest couch in the sitting area and lowered him into the fluffy mess of pillows and blankets. He took the nearest item, a knitted blanket, and wrapped Draco in it before grabbing some red throw pillows and giving it to him to hug. He looked like a messy lopsided blanket burrito. 

Draco sunk deeper into the plush piece of furniture, wrapping himself tighter in the blanket. He hugged the red pillows closer to his chest, letting out a barely audible low rumbling sound from deep inside his throat that sounded suspiciously like a purr.

At this point, Harry was more than half convinced that Draco was a cat, and Mrs Rose was a witch. Despite working at Briar Rose for more than half a year and cleaning every nook and cranny in the shop every day, Harry had never seen this area. 

It was a small cosy space by a miniature fireplace, well hidden from the line of sight of customers. It was somewhat embellished with monochromatic colours, much like the rest of the store, the only difference being the liberal use of the colour red. 

Everything in this area was in varying shades of Mrs Rose’s favourite colour, from the gigantic luxurious one seater couches (that seemed more suited for two individuals) to the throw pillows and knitted blankets, to the tablecloth on top of the mahogany coffee countertop. The decorations on the wall were also different shades of red, from the Burgundy heavy velvet curtains to the candy apple red and gold of the photo frames. Even the candles in the candelabrum and the candelabrum itself was not spared an extra splash of Mrs Rose’s favourite colour. The best part was, the entire area looked like a mini replica of the Gryffindor common room. 

"Draco," he asked calmly, lowering his voice to barely above a whisper. "Can you hear me?" He gingerly placed two hands on each of Draco’s cheeks, cupping his face in between his calloused hands, pressing them together slightly. 

Malfoy nodded slightly after a small delay. He was still looking quite out of it, he’s once cherry-red face now ashen and pallid. Under the warm candlelight, Draco looked tired and worn out, like a washed-out muggle photo from the 18th century. 

"Excellent, now listen to me," Harry said, trying to get Draco’s attention. Malfoy looked at him, eyes still somewhat glazed over, his eyelashes wet with tears, his cheeks marked with tear tracks, the colour on his face drained almost entirely away. 

"Draco," Harry raised his voice ever so slightly, "answer me.” He paused for a moment, giving Draco time to process what he said. Draco hiccuped and blinked, stirring just a little bit, although his eyes were still heavy with tears and his pupils remained fairly unfocused.

"Look at me," Harry ordered more firmly this time around but in a softer tone. Draco complied. "Now Breathe," Harry spoke in a hushed tone exhaling lightly. "Just breathe, block everything out. Just focus on my voice," he said as calmly as possible. “Concentrate on your breathing, stay with me.” Malfoy did his best to do as Harry said. He could see that. Harry gently wiped away Malfoy's tears with his thumbs and the back of his hands. 

"Shh," he whispered as though Malfoy was but a child, "It's okay," he whispered. “You’re alright.” Draco's breathing began to properly slow as Harry continued to whisper calming words to him. His breathing was still fairly choppy but it was a lot better than it was before and he was no longer hiccupping badly or hyperventilating. How useless of him, inconveniencing someone yet again.

‘Why can’t you be normal. Useless nobody, worthless burden.’ He was selfish, keeping Harry to himself once again. He scratched at his open wounds underneath his turtleneck, causing the bleeding on his upper arms to worsen, staining the bandages bright red. After all, the pain didn’t just help ground him. Him punishing himself also somewhat eased the guilt inside of him, eating him alive, threatening to pull him down into a bottomless pit of despair. Draco watched impassively as part of the bandages sticking out from under his sleeve turned bright red, blood soaking the bandage through. Pathetic. 

He let out a shaky breath and looked up, his cloudy moonstone eyes meeting Harry’s brilliant emeralds, still staring worriedly at him, unsure of what to do next. He gave Harry a crooked smile, feeling weak and mentally drained from the whole humiliating ordeal. 

Why was it always Harry Potter saving him like he was Prince Charming? First Hogwarts, now London. Despite his multiple (failed) attempts to insult, harass and generally make Harry’s life miserable throughout his Hogwart years, the dense bloke had still come saving him like some knight in shining armour when the time came. 

Draco laughed to himself at the irony of it all, his voice still a little hoarse and breathy sounding. It was probably because he was so light-headed and out of it, but at that moment Draco thought Harry Potter looked simply angelic.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked, eyes filled with concern. Draco was finding it hard to breathe, his heart pounding in his rib cage. But this time for a very different reason. 

"Yes, I'm fine," he tried to say with confidence. He must have failed because Harry didn't look nearly as convinced as he should be. He tried again. “Simply splendid.”

"Are you sure Malfoy?" Harry hunched his back and bent down, leaning in closer to look at him, his nose almost touching Draco’s. Draco swallowed, his mouth feeling as dry as the burnt-toast-that-was-partially-on-fire-for-a-few-seconds he had for breakfast a few days ago. That was the last thing he ate before spiralling and going into an all coffee mode. 

He was already feeling light-headed and nauseous, and Potter didn’t seem to be a great help with that at all. Draco could catch the smell of his cologne, a light combination of vanilla mixed with cedar and sandalwood, along with a strong woody smell from the lit candles in the air. He could also catch whiffs of coffee beans, flour, and cookies in the air. He suspected he was looking at a part-time kitchen disaster and potential cookie theif.

Draco scrunched up his nose and leaned away as far as possible from Harry, sinking into the endless depths of the impossibly soft sofa he was sitting on, covering his face with a red throw pillow. He tried focusing on the pleasant crackling sounds of fresh wood burning in the fireplace, a mixture of Fir and Alder heating the cafe instead of the incoming migraine, a looming, soon to be, complication.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, his brows drawing together to form a line. He tilted his head, confused. He looked around, head turning left and right, up and down, as if the answer to his questions were hiding somewhere in the room, playing hide and seek with him. Draco smirked. Harry looked like a lost puppy.

"The great Harry Potter worrying about me? Oh my,” he snarked, dramatically placing a hand on his heart. “I’m so flattered beyond words, whatever shall I do?” He exaggeratedly batted his white eyelashes, his grey eyes looking at the ceiling. 

“How about this charming young sir give me a sufficient reply to my question?” Harry suggested, quirking an eyebrow, completely unimpressed.

“Nay. Thy has’t been flattered beyond words, and thy can nay longeth’r comprehend what thou art declaring. Horror.”

"Draco, what's wrong," Harry prodded, this time completely sober.

"It's none of your business, Potter," Draco snapped. He was on the precipice of breaking, of free-falling yet again into the unending abyss of toxic thoughts without a harness. Why couldn’t Harry just let this go?

"It's just," Harry paused. He pursed his lips, contemplating what to say, choosing his next few words wisely. "I think I might be able to help," Harry suggested to him. Draco snapped frowning. Instead, his brows were knitted together in confusion and distrust. He brought his feet up onto the couch and curled into himself further. He glared at Potter, his eyes narrowed in apprehension and suspicion.

"Well for starters,” Harry began. “I think that it would be helpful if you could tell me what triggered that panic attack." Draco brows remained knitted together, his mouth pressed in a thin line. He had no idea how to answer. He was Draco Lucius Malfoy; he didn't get panic attacks. 

"I don't know what you're talking about." Draco crossed his arms, his face cold and impassive.

"Yes you do, Malfoy," Harry insisted, leaning forward, trapping Draco between his body and the sofa. He stared Draco in the eye. “Stop hiding it.” 

Draco's ears were already flushed red from before and were still stained red. Now that same brilliant shade of scarlet was not just spreading across his face, but also down his neck too, causing him to look like a ripening tomato, red tint staining his cheeks, ears and necks. His heart was once again pounding against his rib cage, but Draco suspected that it was for a very different reason as compared to before because this time, it was paired with butterflies in his stomach. 

He didn’t like it very much, it felt uncomfortable. 

Harry had leaned in so close that Draco could feel his breath tickling his skin, the smell of his cologne invading his nose, causing Draco to let out a small sneeze, breaking the magic like trance he was under. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, clearly irritated. He frowned, though he suspected it looked more like a pout.

‘Why couldn’t Potter just mind his own business?’ Draco acknowledged and understood that Harry was worried, but couldn’t for the life of him understand why the dense idiot even cared about someone like him. Didn’t he have work to do? Why would he even bother caring about some useless bloke like me? He quickly masked his confusion behind a fragile mask of bravado. After all, a Malfoy never shows weakness, even in the form of confusion and (god forbid!) uncertainty. Harry had already seen through enough of him today.

"Merlin. Really, Potter. For once in your life, can't you mind your own business," Draco snarked at him, giving him a weak half-hearted shove. 

Harry looked completely unaffected and unimpressed. He rolled his eyes, getting up. Draco would never admit it but he thought that it made Potter look exceptionally dashing. That was until he heard Potter murmur, “Drama queen,” under his breath.

Harry walked over to the nearest sofa and sat heavily, landing with a soft thud. Draco shifted around on the sofa he was in, repositioning himself and shifting around until he got comfortable. Harry looked at Draco only to see just the tip of his silvery hair struggling to stay afloat but failing, drowning in a seemingly endless sea of red. Harry let out an exasperated sigh.

"Look Malfoy,” Harry began. “It’s perfectly fine and reasonable if you don't want my help, but you should probably try and figure out why you're having those panic attacks," Harry shrugged, looking at the pile of pillows Malfoy was buried under, contemplating on whether or not to rescue him. 

Draco stopped struggling under the pile of pillows at once, and it wasn’t long before he appeared from underneath the landslide of red, popping out of the messy pile like gnome in the ‘whack-a-gnome’ game, his once neat mini ponytail now a hot mess much to Draco’s annoyance. 

He had noticed during his short time with Harry that the the overgrown idiot had an undertone of superiority in his voice when speaking, much like Dumbledore, as if he was speaking on a topic he had centuries worth of experience that he possessed but Draco lacked, which he didn’t. Draco frowned in displeasure. He didn’t like that very much. Harry was picking up and learning all the wrong things and bad habits this world has to offer, at least in his opinion. 

"I mean obviously something’s going on and-"

"Merlin, Potter. Do you ever shut up?" Draco asked in a curt tone, rolling his eyes, his voice laced with extreme irritation. “Firstly, I’m Draco Lucius Malfoy, and Malfoys don’t have ‘panic attacks’,” he said, explaining his flawed logic with enough plot holes to make swiss cheese as if it were a common fact, his arms raised above him in air quotes. “Secondly, don’t speak to me in that tone Potter, it’s disgusting.”

"Malfoy," Harry said pointedly, crossing his arms in annoyance and slight frustration.

"Potter," Draco replied, his trademark smirk hanging proudly of his face, crossing his arms in a similar style and sinking back and disappearing into the couch even further. Harry leaned forward towards Draco, about to argue back when-

“‘Ope I ain’ interruptin’ anythin’,” said an old hoarse voice. Draco whipped his head around, only to see a woman looking ancient enough to be his great grandmother hobbling towards them with the help of a walking stick, yet still managing to balance a wooden tray with Draco’s order on one hand. 

She had a cryptic smile on her face as she walked into the area, much like the one the late headmaster of Hogwarts had. She looked at Harry and Draco, and her eyes widened in what seemed to be realisation. She pushed her half-moon glasses up her nose, her caterpillar-like eyebrows shooting up her face. 

“Ahh. Flirtin’ I see?” Causing Draco to choke on his saliva and Harry to flush red once more. They were sputtering, both at a complete loss for words. With that, she set Draco’s order on the coffee table, giving neither boy a quarter of a chance to explain himself before hobbling away. 

Harry buried his face in a throw pillow he grabbed from beside him and Draco disappeared into his castle of pillows and blankets. Draco thought he heard a muffled scream, borderline shriek. 

“We weren't flirting!” Harry sputtered after a few minutes of awkward silence, finally emerging from his cave of shame, trying to justify himself in a futile attempt to prove his innocence to no one in particular. 

“Exactly,” Draco agreed with a nod, reaching out from under his pillow pile to snatch up a cherry and white tea flavoured macaron, his hand quickly disappearing underneath it again. 

He nibbled on the rough edge of the white macaron, picking at the gold leaf foil it was topped with. He stared at the red specs on his otherwise snow-white macaron, tasting bits of the sugary sweet pastry melting in his mouth, savouring the delightful aftertaste. He licked his lips. 

“We weren’t flirting.” He frowned, looking more and more like a grumpy cat that was forced to take a shower. Harry thought he looked adorable.

“Were we?” he asked himself, whispering under his breath.

Neither boy heard the other, their voices lost in the muted sound of wood crackling in the fireplace and the soft chattering noises of people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *Plans to not write Part two till next year*  
> Me: *Binge watches HP movies and binge reads HP books*  
> Me: Screw it I'm writing.  
> .  
> .  
> This was rushed and written in two days. I hope it wasn't too bad .-.  
> .  
> I guess there's gonna be a part 3. Cause if not there is a good 95% chance someone is going to come at me with a potential murder weapon.


	3. Thorns and roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's a little dense. ;-;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is done. My work is complete. I shall go sleep now.

Harry watched Draco intently, observing him finish the last of his espresso shots and smack his lips, satisfied. It was as if he were expecting Draco to collapse and have a heart attack at any moment due to excess ungodly levels of caffeine in his system. He stared at him, his unwavering, steely gaze never leaving Draco, his emerald eyes boring into Draco’s soul and sending chills down the poor bloke’s spine. 

Draco wrapped himself tighter in his borrowed blanket. He stared into the black abyss, frowning at the bottom of the empty coffee cup disappointedly as if he were expecting extra coffee to appear in his cup if he looked away. 

Harry stared. He had been staring at Draco for the past 20 minutes at least, his eyes never leaving him. He knew there was an unsaid line he was expected not to cross when doing this, having not just witnessed but having also gained personal experience in attracting unwanted attention and uncomfortable stares from others himself first hand, especially back in Hogwarts. Even now, he still received undesired stares, be it from muggles, witches or wizards. He didn’t like them very much. Currently, he was testing dangerous waters, dangling his feet above sharks, balancing on said line, as if he were some deranged tightrope walker. 

Draco was on the edge. Even though he was wrapped up in a warm knitted blanket and by a warm fireplace, had drank his daily cup of coffee and his much-needed dose of sugar-based energy, Draco was uncomfortable. The sugar and caffeine humming through his system was making him feel high and restless, causing him to start twitching and his legs to start twitching unintentionally. He was like a tightly wounded rubber band on the verge of snapping, a deadly cocktail of toxic anxiety, depression, sugar and caffeine. 

Draco felt uncomfortable with all the stored up energy left in him, his thoughts now in overdrive, tempting him to go for a run to spend the extra energy. The fact that it was the middle of winter didn’t seem to do much to deter him and his brain. He was tempted to run, to bolt, to sprint away, far, far away, as far as he could go from this awkward situation. The air was so brittle it could snap, and if it didn’t, he might. No one speaks. After all, what is there to say?

Draco let out a slow, controlled breath and attempted to loosen his body movements. He rolled his shoulders back and forth before tilting his head left and right to stretch his stiff aching muscles, earning a few satisfying cracks after sitting in one position for too long. His body felt sore and rigid, his joints aching.

“Merlin, Potter. I know I’m handsome but this attention is a little bit much, don’t you think?” Draco scoffed, breaking the awkward silence. He emerged from his protective cocoon, reaching out to grab the red porcelain plate his macaroons were on, swiping his index finger all around the plate, catching all the loose bits of sugar, before proceeding to unceremoniously stick his finger in his mouth. Draco looked up, only to see Harry staring at him. Draco blushed in embarrassment, his cheeks hot with a rosy blush painted on his face, making his lily-white skin stand out. 

Harry sighed.

Ah, Draco. Always so eloquent. 

“Shut up, Potter,” Draco said as he saw Harry open his mouth to presumably say something. His mouth quickly snapped shut. “Not a word.” With that, he resumed his personal responsibility and supposed goal of polishing off Mrs Rose’s plate. It wasn’t long before Draco’s finger-licking quickly escalated to him licking the plate itself. 

‘I’d be damned if his animagus wasn’t a cat,’ Harry thought to himself as he carefully observed Draco, putting the skills he learnt in Care of Magical Creatures to good use. He would know. After all, he owned an albino Persian kitten. He had adopted the silvery blue-eyed menace from the pet shelter just after he and Ginny had broken up. 

Though Harry and Ginny had broken up on peaceful, neutral terms, she had decided to move out, choosing to move back into the Burrow as she sought out another apartment someplace else in London. 

Harry had been thankful for avoiding a world war 3, after hearing what they had fondly dubbed, ‘break up horror stories, myths and tales 101’, from close friends in Hogwarts. He and his companions had laughed, poked at and made jokes out of those stories, but he sure as heck wasn’t alright when he and Ginny broke up. He knew it was for the best when she had decided to move out, the growing tension in the small apartment growing harder and harder to bear as the days went by. However, things just weren’t the same without Ginny in the house. Shortly after, Harry had been offered a full-time job at Briar Rose. 

Although his parents had left him more than enough to live the rest of his life not lifting a finger to work, Harry had decided to take up the offer. Reason being he had been lonely at home with no one to talk to, all his friends busy with school, work or coping with trauma. Not wanting to be alone at home more than necessary, Harry had decided to be a full-timer at Briar Rose, at least until Auror training starts. 

Despite having a full-time job that surrounded him with familiar faces and required him to interact with people for over 9 hours, Harry had been lonely, to say the least. A month into his job and Harry was miserable. After the breakup, Harry had no motivation to carry on on his daily routine, never putting much effort into anything, including making the effort to step out of the house to do physical activity or to simply buy take-out. The only food he ate was Mrs Rose’s espresso and an occasional mocha cupcake once or twice every 4 days. 

By the time the end of the month rolled by, Harry had lost at least 8 pounds, his once sun-kissed honeyed skin now gaunt and pale, almost slightly translucent, his once luscious ebony curls, soft to the touch, were now oily and droopy, hanging over his forehead. In that month he had taken on a complete 360° transformation, from what seemed to be the cover model for teen vogue to an emo goth teenager going through a bad break out (or up) in the middle of puberty. It was a truly pathetic situation. 

Harry’s coworkers looked upon him with eyes brimming with pity and sympathy, be it his long time friends or strangers, part-timers or full-timers as if they had gone through a similar stage in their life too. However, few had brought up to him any helpful advice, only making unhelpful comments or unwanted remarks like ‘man up!’, or ‘You’ll get through it.’. Then one day, one of his coworkers-now-turned-into-friend had suggested that he adopt a pet, explaining that another living soul in the house should do the trick. 

Harry had called into work the next day.

Before the sun had even risen the next morning, Harry had been strolling through Diagon alley, his pockets and bag filled with galleons freshly collected from Gringotts, looking for a magical companion. He had stopped by the Eeylops Owl Emporium, squinting through the foggy frost-covered glass panels to get a glimpse of the creatures of flight resting inside, considering getting another owl. That was until he spotted a snowy white one that reminded him of the late Hedwig. He immediately blew off the idea, disgusted at himself. He didn’t like the thought of another owl replacing his dear friend. He almost slapped himself for even considering it. Someday he would get an owl, but today wasn’t the day. 

He had then considered getting a Gryphon, having wanted one secretly since he had first laid his eyes on a picture of one in his first-year Hogwarts while Hermione was doing some of her ‘light reading’. The only reason he got involved in her reading session was because of the many moving pictures of different magical species, from gnomes to centaurs to unicorns. It was interesting. He, later on, had reasoned to himself that it would be too big to fit in his apartment. He was only half convinced that he shouldn’t get one. 

Someday he would get himself an owl and a Gryphon, but today wasn’t the day.

The only reasonable choice he had left for a pet, that he was fairly sure would be allowed in auror training, would be a cat. Thus, one hyperactive Harry James Potter was sighted in Diagon Alley at 6:30 am before the sun was even up, his face pressed against glass panels of pet shops, terrifying animals and getting worried stares of passersby left and right. It was a miracle that the ministry of magic was not called in by anyone.

It was at 8:34 am, about half an hour after the sun had risen, about two hours after Harry had been first spotted at Diagon alley, exactly two hours and fourteen minutes since his hunt for a pet started. Harry had finally found it. The chosen one. His soulmate. 

It was an albino Persian kitten. The snowball of fur, unlike most cats, had icy blue eyes so tinted that they were almost a shade of grey, with tiny specs of bluebell and iceberg. It reminded Harry of an unpolished gem, a precious stone waiting to be uncovered. Harry thought it was gorgeous, that silvery shade of blue. It reminded him of a certain someone, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Although the kitten was a tiny thing, about half a head smaller than the other kittens Harry had seen despite its voluminous shiny fur, it certainly had not made any significant negative effect to its outstanding guts. Unlike most cats who flinched away or hissed when they saw Harry staring at them, this cat merely stared back, its eyes blinking slowly, impassively. It looked slightly unimpressed by him and his extreme enthusiasm. This was it. He had made his decision. Thus, Harry stood, leaning against a brick wall, staring at the white kitten, waiting outside the pet shop until 10:30 am. 

By tea break, Harry was back in his apartment, a grumpy Persian kitten in a cage in one brutalised hand, a trunk of cat necessities and not-really-necessities in the other. The items he spent on ranged from a cheap on sale 2 in 1 fur brush and comb for 2 sickles, to unneeded too-expensive luxury pieces of furniture like cat stands, litter boxes, beds and carriers with starting prices of 20 Galleons, a good 5 Galleons more than what the kitten cost. Needless to say, Harry had spent too much. He regretted nothing. By the end of his mad shopping spree, he had spent at least over 100 Galleons. He had lost count.

Harry looked like he survived another war. He had scratch marks, bite marks and small puncture wounds all over his body in different shapes and sizes, his battle scars ranging from tiny bite marks to large foot long scratches. His whole body was throbbing. 

He had wanted to name the kitten after its chaotic and destructive nature, blizzard, but had decided against it, standing in favour of the name snowball, just so he could make a pun whenever he said its name. He couldn’t resist. Thus, the angry ball of fluff was christened Sir. Blizzard SnowBall The First, or Snowpaw for short. 

By the time the sun had disappeared over the horizon, Harry had only just finished setting up all the things he had bought, and his apartment looked less like his, and more like the aggressive snowball’s who reminded him of a certain ice prince of Hogwarts, and he loved it. Both the kitten and his newly upgraded apartment.

Thus, based on the experience he had with cats, Harry was willing to bet that Draco was either a cat, or his animagus was. 

Not only did Draco make cat-like sounds, like hissing, purring, snarling and growling, he also acted like a certain cat, specifically Snowpaw. Whether it be his scratching, his aloofness or his classic ‘I am better than you, sod off’ stare, it was all uncannily feline-like and eerily similar to his kitten. 

Another notable cat-like behaviour of Draco was how competitive he was when it came to house points, especially between Slytherin and Gryffindor. It was very much comparable to a cat’s aggressive territorial habits. 

When he was angry, his grey pupils constricted and he would tense up, much like an aggressive cat. Draco had relatively long and sharp nails, similar to a cat’s claws. Even his hair was as soft as cat’s fur, or perhaps it had been Harry’s imagination. Hagrid would have been proud of his clear, detailed and concise observation. 

An awkward tension-filled few minutes pass and Draco is seemingly done with cleaning the plate. He smacks his lips, contented, before shedding off the blanket he was still partially wrapped in.

“Is it alright if you helped me package this, Potter?” Draco asked, referring to his mocha cupcake, sitting on a plate untouched.

“Of course.” Harry picked up the plate and walked behind the counter. He felt a heavy slap on his back, causing him to almost fall forward and drop the cupcake. 

“Merlin!” He looked back to see his friend, Lance, a part-timer at Briar Rose and underpaid college student, smirking. He was from Scottish descent and had icy blue eyes paired with curly brown hair he had affectionately nicknamed ‘dark chocolate shavings’, and had kept his tan skin, ‘milk chocolate shade’ he said, (despite Harry’s insistence that it was a shade of burnt orange,) from wakeboarding in the summer, much to Harry’s confusion. 

‘The sun doesn’t work like that! How on earth is that even possible.’ Harry had said one day. ‘Magic.’ he said matter of factly, adding a wink and jazz hands for that special effect, was the reply he had gotten from Lance. Thus began the start of a great friendship. ‘A chaotic neutral bromance.’ Lance insisted on calling it. He had made Harry look like the normal sane one in their friendship, even though Harry was the ‘boy who lived’. A shooking feat no one but him has ever accomplished thus far.

He was the individual who had given Harry helpful advice during his ‘episode’, as Harry insisted on calling it, being the person who had recommended Harry to get a pet, something Harry was eternally grateful for. ‘Best advice you’ve ever given,’ Harry had said. ‘Never thought you were capable of giving out advice, let alone helpful ones.’ he had added as an afterthought, stating it matter-of-factly. He had gotten a smack on the head that day.

“I almost dropped the damn cupcake, Lance.”

“But you didn’t,” he replied, giving him a toothy smile. Smooth git. Harry rolled his eyes so hard he thought they may pop out of their sockets. Lance grabbed a cupcake carrier from below the counter, passing it to Harry.

“Really, Dixon.”

“Truly, Potter.” He replied, watching Harry slowly fold the box into a 3D shape, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He was taking more time and effort than what he put in regularly when folding boxes and the box looked less lopsided than his usual standard. 

On the rare occasion that they were so understaffed that they had to assign Harry to fold boxes (God forbid!), Harry’s boxes were either crumpled, smashed, wet, missing a chunk or burnt. Lance didn’t want to know how a water-resistant box could get wet, nor how Harry could have burnt the box despite standing behind the counter the entire time, nowhere near any flammable material, the stove or a lighter.

“Is the cupcake for a friend, Potter?” Harry snorted, letting out a laugh. 

“As if,” he replied, focusing on packing the cupcake nicely.

“Perhaps, more than a friend?” Lance wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Harry blushed red, feeling all the blood in his body rush to his head. He choked on his saliva before his arm accidentally hit the plate the cupcake was on, causing him to almost drop Draco’s order again. He quickly caught it before it toppled over off the edge of the countertop.

“Merlin, no!” Harry replied, incredulous. He and Draco weren’t even friends… were they? His lips curved up slightly at the thought of him and Draco being friends. ‘That’ll be nice,’ he thought. 

“It's just for a silver-haired idiot,” he explained. Lance looked up, having lost interest at watching Harry weak, failure of an attempt to fold a box nicely.

“Umm... Harry,” Lance asked, nudging him lightly. Harry ignored him in favour of putting the cupcake into the box. “Is the idiot you were talking about petite, about half a head shorter than the average short Londoner, and wearing a crumpled black turtleneck with ripped jeans?”

Harry made an impressed face. “Excellent guess, Dixon. Funny story, he is exactly how you described him as, poor fashion sense and all.”

“But really Harry, in all seriousness, who wears ripped jeans in the middle of winter?” He clarified with Harry, his face a picture of pure horror and slight disgust. Harry gave him a small nod, that meant ‘clearly only Draco’, not looking up. He held the end of a long ribbon in his mouth as he attempted to tie a bow around the box with the rest of the string.

“Well, you better hurry Harry because he looks like he’s going soon,” Lance stated. He was ignored.

“Potter!” Lance cried, this time with much more urgency in his tone, digging his elbow into Harry’s stomach for that extra ‘oomph’, as Mrs Rose liked to say, stomping on Harry’s foot with all his weight. Just for good measure. Harry let out a muted sound of extreme pain as if he were sucker-punched in his most sensitive regions. He could already feel his stomach and feet bruising. “Your husband’s leaving!” Harry looked up, the cupcake finally packaged, only to see Draco Malfoy exiting the shop. 

Harry blinked. Once, twice, three times, before he hopped into action, wincing slightly at the sudden movement. Harry whacked Lance on the head as hard as he could and grabbed the package, walking swiftly around the counter to chase after Draco, almost dropping the cupcake the third time in the process. He only realised later that he hadn’t corrected Lance.

It was only when Harry ran out of the store, the icy cold of winter hitting him, chilling him to the bones, did he remember he had forgotten to wear his winter jacket. The temperature was around 0 degrees, and Harry suspected that it may start snowing soon. The bitter cold was like a slap in the face from mother nature herself. He saw Draco up ahead.

“Draco! You forgot something!” He called, trying to catch his attention, but to no avail. His voice was lost in the wind. He tsked in annoyance, before breaking out into a light jog to catch up to him, careful not to slip on the wet icy pavement and metal drains. 

Harry caught up with Draco, latching onto his arm. Draco spun around suddenly. His eyes widened in an almost comical way, as he was suddenly face to face with Harry, their noses almost touching, their breaths mingling together in the cold winter air. His lips were so close that if Draco were to move an inch- 

"You forgot something," Harry said quietly, a rosy tint spread across his cheeks, breaking Draco’s train of thoughts. Draco stumbled back a few steps. Harry held up Draco’s cupcake. It was packaged in a cute white box (now only slightly lopsided, a personal achievement to Harry,) with a pink ribbon, making it look like a tiny gift. On the side of the box was a rose emblem branded on. Draco looked surprised and slightly confused.

“Did you see the note I left on the table?”

“What note,” Harry asked, tilting his head to one side.

“Merlin, Potter. The note telling you that the cupcake was a thank you gift to you,” Draco explained with an exasperated sigh. Harry tilted his head even further. “For helping me,” Draco explained further. Harry made a confused sound, more puzzled than ever. “Get through the panic attack and for whatever heroic shenanigans you performed in Hogwarts.” Draco blushed, scrawling in embarrassment. Harry made a sound of understanding. He let out a deep humming sound from inside his chest.

“I don’t really like coffee, maybe you could help me finish it back inside?” Harry winced. It sounded more like a question than a statement. He didn’t know where that came from. Harry loved Mrs Rose’s mocha cupcakes. So much so that whenever anyone was to sneak a bite out of his, he would attempt to bite them back. ‘An eye for an eye,’ as Hermione would have said. It would be ‘A bite for a bite’ to him.

"Aren’t you determined to keep me in this store?" he teased. Harry couldn't think of a good response but continued to hold onto Malfoy's arm. Draco pulled his arm back, trying to break out of Harry’s iron grip but to no avail. Draco gave him a cold smile.

"Potter if you don't let me go right now there will be severe consequences," Malfoy threatened coyly. Harry cocked an eyebrow. 

"Or what, Malfoy? Is your Father going to hear about this," he mocked. Malfoy rolled his eyes. 

"I haven't talked to my father in quite a while Potter,” Draco stated matter of factly. "Now this is your last warning, let me go,” he said in a firm tone, his voice low and dangerous. Despite him emphasizing on the last three words, Harry, being the stubborn idiot he was, tightened his grip on Malfoy's arm instead. Draco stepped a little closer, closing the distance between him and Harry. He looked up and saw a tiny pin size snowflake land on Harry's nose. He watched as it melted a matter of seconds.

"Hmm, not exactly the first snow but it’ll do,” Draco thought aloud, a barely audible murmur said underneath his breath. “Last chance Potter.” Harry cocked an eyebrow again, smirking in an overconfident way.

“Try me.”

“Well, you did ask for it," Draco said, chuckling lightly to himself. Harry wasn't sure what Malfoy was planning to do but the suspense was terrifying. He unconsciously loosened his grip on Draco’s arm. 

Draco seized the opportunity and yanked his arm away from Harry's grasp. Instead of running away as Harry expected him to, Draco stepped closer, closing whatever remaining distance there was left between him and Harry left from before. 

“Take a deep breath,” Draco warned before he quickly gripped onto Harry's right shoulder and the back of his neck. He tiptoed, swiftly pulling the unsuspecting boy down to him and closing his eyes before joining their lips together. 

Harry's eyes widened in shock. 

‘What was happening right now?’ Harry didn't know how to react as he stood there frozen. Malfoy's lips were soft against his own and Harry could smell the green tea shower gel he used in his hair along with the faint scent of coffee and macarons. He loved it.

Harry’s hands were dangling awkwardly by his side as Harry tried figuring out what to do with them. In the heat of the moment, he decided to place them on Draco’s slim waist gently, careful to not startle him. They were oblivious to the world around them, their lips latched onto each other’s as if someone had locked their lips together and had lost the key. 

Harry gently pulled Draco closer, deepening the kiss. His tongue gingerly prodded Draco’s soft bottom lip, politely asking for entry. As his heart pounded in his chest, Draco complied, opening his mouth slightly. He felt Harry’s tongue prod at his lips, coaxing them open further.

Draco couldn’t fully comprehend what was going on. The kiss had been initiated by him and had started slowly, soft and innocent, chaste and sweet. It had then swiftly escalated to a full-blown battle, all tongue and teeth, their lust for each other stronger than ever. 

Harry’s tongue slid into Draco’s mouth, plunging into the depths of his wet cavern. Their tongues rolled together as they fought for dominance before Harry won the short battle, his tongue eagerly tasting every nook and cranny of Draco’s mouth, sending sparks up and down Draco’s spine and wild tremors along his nerves. 

Draco moaned, loving the sweet taste of Harry, tasting traces of bitter espresso on his tongue. ‘What a pretty little liar.’

It wasn’t long before Draco felt a swimming giddiness as if he were drunk on a potent cocktail of love and lust. He clung on tightly to the only stable thing in a dizzy swaying world, melting against Harry’s chest into his strong toned arms, relying on him to stand up. His brain had long since given up on him, a thick haze of lust spreading through his head.

Harry loved it. The feeling of Draco’s soft lips pressed against his, his tongue sliding against Harry’s. The kiss wasn’t fast, but slow and thorough. Draco moved his hands from Harry’s shoulder to his head, threading his hands into Harry’s brown locks as Harry pushed his lips against Draco’s, moulding them with his own.

In those few minutes, the lines between hate and love, love and lust were all blurred, every restraint banished into oblivion. The cold didn’t matter the least, the snow falling around them but a distraction, for they were in each other’s protective cocoon. Time stopped, and they both wished that the moment could last forever. 

The kiss felt like a warm summer breeze in the middle of a winter blizzard. It was as if they were opening their soul to each other, sharing their deepest secrets and darkest memories, their scars and tribulations, their wins and losses. It felt like they were giving up control to each other, yet they were so much in control at the same time. It felt like they were levitating, yet they had never felt more grounded in their lives. The kiss was like a potion of some sort, an aphrodisiac even, mixed with a butterfly effect. When their lips connected it felt like a thousand and one fireworks were bursting inside them like they could see, feel and touch every colour of the rainbow.

In that kiss, their chemistry combined into a blinding flame, bright and ever-burning. In that kiss, the emotions they poured out spoke volumes that transcended the works of great poets combined. In that kiss, they found the sweetness of passion, a million loving thoughts condensed into a single moment. In that kiss, they were their pure and vulnerable selves. In that kiss, they felt all was right. In that kiss, they were home.

In the end, it was Draco who broke the kiss, letting out a soft whine, ending the moment. They were both gasping for air. The ice prince of Hogwarts looked ready to fall over, porcelain skin now a rosy shade despite the cold, his lips a cherry red and slightly swollen, the plump flesh now looking even more plush and kissable. He looked dishevelled. Harry suspected he was in a similar condition. 

Harry blinked, very frazzled. His lips were still tingling from their kiss. He stared at Malfoy, holding his breath. 

"Do you still think I'd 'tell my father' about this,'' he smirked at Harry smugly, his cheeks still painted with a rather prominent blush. 

‘Like a rose.’ Harry thought to himself. It was the blush of roses, the peak of champagne pink. The colour infused cheeks dimpled with a blossoming smile, much like a sunflower blooming in the golden mid-summer sun. 

Harry pursed his lips and puffed out his chest, still very flustered. He tried to think of a witty response. 

"I-you- a." Now it was Harry's turn to go red. His cheeks burned hot, and the sight of it egged Draco on - his embarrassment, Draco’s nectar.

“Ah. The great Harry Potter. Always so eloquent with words.” He laughed playfully, his eyes filled with mirth and cheeky delight. If only he knew the irony in his statement.

"Y-Why did you do that?" Harry forced out the question with an annoying unwanted stutter. He could feel the heat still growing in his cheeks. By now, Harry suspected that they were way beyond an attractive rosiness, his crimson cheeks now marking him out as a social incompetent. He felt like his embarrassment was written in bold italics across his face. 

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow. He tried suppressing a wide grin but ultimately failed. He could tell from Harry’s prominent blush and lack of rejection that he most liked him back, or at least didn’t completely hate Draco. He had a chance. Draco grinned. Harry’s usually honey brown skin which bore much resemblance to that of smooth caramel, had a certain rosiness, borderline crimson to it.

"Why not," Draco asked, his smile was making him very punchable. His eyes shone in a way only deep satisfaction can bring. "I did try to warn you," he noted. 

"Well, that's not what I was expecting," Harry said exasperated. 

"Well that's not my fault is it," Malfoy crossed his arms. Harry huffed, frustrated. The corner of Draco’s lips tweaked upwards, a smirk barely visible, but still there. He was enjoying Harry's suffering. He waited for a minute or two to bask in Harry’s embarrassment. He spun on his heels, turning around.

"See you tomorrow, Potter,'' he cheered. Seeing that there were no cars, he hopped off the sidewalk and skipped across the zebra crossing. “My new coffee machine doesn’t arrive for the next few weeks or two,” he shouted from across the road. He lied. Draco didn’t understand why he did that.

Harry watched as the snow came down lightly, dancing in the golden sunlight, a choreographed graceful ballet conducted by the gentle wind. When Harry saw that Malfoy was completely gone. He let out a much more audible sound. With Malfoy gone his brain began to switch gears from defending himself from incoming verbal assaults to his dwindling self-esteem to processing what had just happened. 

He was freaking out. His breaths were coming out in short puffs of vapour, but he wasn't having a panic attack. He combed his hands through his hair slowly regaining his composure. He looked up, letting the snow fall and rest on his face. He felt the snow melt, cooling down his burning cheeks. Breath pale against the numbing winter air, he walked back to Briar Rose, cupcake in hand, before stomping back to behind the counter. 

He breathed in and out slowly, trying to slow his beating heart. Seeing that there was no one queuing at the counter, he attempted making an order before quickly giving up after he almost burnt himself on the coffee machine, twice. 

He stared into the distance absentmindedly, looking through the grand frosted floor to ceiling glass panels, watching as the snow softly fell outside the shop, painting the city white. 

The newly clothed trees rose as if they were fairytale beings in a wintry wonderland landscape, as the heavy grey clothes bequeathed the earth with yet another bounty of snow. It rests on top of the pavements as if it were a feather blanket, soft and warm to the touch, covering the rough and cold stone in a perfect white. He watched as the sun’s golden light shone, bestowing brilliance and igniting colours to brilliant hues. Rays of warmth touched the snow, causing a plethora of colours to reflect everywhere.

He didn’t notice Lance leaning on the marble countertop, sliding over to him slowly, his chin resting on his fist. 

"Hey Potter," he drew out the vowels. "Your glasses are crooked." He smiled at him teasingly. Harry jumped at first before composing himself. He straightened his glasses. Harry looked at him, unimpressed. Lance continued to smile at him, his trademark toothy smile still hanging off his face. Harry wanted to slap it off into tomorrow and beyond. 

“Your lips are red,” He pointed out, an innocent look on his face. Harry blushed, looking away. He turned and glared at him. 

"Not a word, Lance, or otherwise," He paused for a moment, thinking, contemplating. Choosing the appropriate punishment heavy enough to fit this serious crime. “No more hot chocolate for you.” He added that last part as Lance opened his mouth to say something. Lance began laughing even harder. He clutched his stomach, wiping tears out of his eyes using the back of his hand.

“Horror. The betrayal, it hurts.” Lance cried dramatically, placing a hand on his forehead and the other upon his heart, acting like he was fainting. “Now for the real question. To speak, or not to speak?” he asked, quoting Shakespeare.

Harry whacked him on the head, hard. Lance gave an injured yelp. 

“God forbid these two ever meet each other,” Harry murmured to himself under his breath. 

“And who might the other person be?” Lance asked, giving him a Cheshire like smile. “Could it be…” he paused for a dramatic effect. “...my significant other?”

Harry whacked him on his head again, harder as compared to before. Lance let out another injured yelp before giving him a pout. Harry merely rolled his eyes and focused on making another cup of coffee, this time without burning himself. 

As much as he tried to not think about it. His thoughts kept wandering to Draco's lips on his. Harry touched his lips. He smiled faintly to himself at the thought of seeing Draco again tomorrow. 

He didn’t notice the faint blush painting his cheeks a rosy shade of pink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for staying through the mini ficlet, I'm glad and grateful that you made it owo

**Author's Note:**

> Wow.  
> .  
> You still here?  
> .  
> Damn.  
> .  
> hi :D  
> .  
> Firstly, i would like to once again emphasize on the fact that 2020 has been trash.  
> Secondly, thank you for reading all the way to the end (I never thought anyone would) thanks for sticking around and I hoped you enjoyed it! uwu I'm not gonna ask for a kudos or anything, cause idk how this works. But I do hope you liked this story.  
> .  
> Also feedback, comments and suggestions are more than welcomed. And it's my first fanfic so please don't hate on it too much ;-; Credit to all those people from random websites that I seeked reference from :)  
> .  
> Quick disclaimer:  
> Umm... so. The thing is I don't live in UK and also I havn't finished every JK Rowling books yet so do excuse any mistakes or canon diversion I make. Anddddd I have never been to a coffee shop so idk how these things work. Although I hope you gimme feedback bout those mistakes in the comments ;-;


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